Raven Hill

By Shaun Whittington

Based in 2005, The first book in the Raven Hill series is an edge of your seat thriller.

Like most towns, Raven Hill has a dark history. Its inhabitants know of the history, apart from newcomer Gavin Brown. Brown has recently moved from London to experience the "quiet life" and finds there is more to the town than meets the eye.

David Dawson is a family man, and like other residents, knows of the dark history surrounding Raven Hill and the woods, and the infamous story of Killer Kelly.

To the adults, Killer Kelly was a character from years back that massacred his family. To the children, Killer Kelly is a ghost that is still present and lives in the same shack where he killed his family, which is situated on the common hill, between Raven Hill and the woods.

This thriller is written as seen through the eyes of an adult, and also that of the three children, Alan, Neil and Steven Dawson, David Dawson's son.

Packed with developing eerie stories, innocent friendship, and scenes of terror, Some Men are Haunted dissects each character and tells the reader how they have been affected.

This story comes to a dramatic and bloody conclusion, and is not for persons under the age of 18.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shaun Whittington
• Release date: Aug 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215517789

Shaun Whittington

Shaun mainly writes dark tales with twists, not necessarily all out horror, and likes to keep his writing spelling to U.K. English, because it's easier for him.He has written short stories over a number of years for First Publishing and Skive Magazine, before turning to novels.Some of his novels are available for FREE. And he has recently signed a contract with Severed Press for his apocalyptic Ghostland books.Books available since July 2013:DemonsBillyThe Monkey WingMisty FallsBlack HourThe Prison DiariesNutjobThe Z WordSnatchers (a zombie novel)Snatchers 2: The Dead Don't SleepSnatchers 3; The Dead Don't CrySnatchers 4: The Dead Don't PitySnatchers 5: The Dead Don't BreatheSnatchers 6: The Dead Don't FeelSnatchers 7: The Dead Don't YieldSnatchers 8: The Dead Don't PraySnatchers 9: The Dead Don't ScreamSnatchers 10: The Dead Don't CareSnatchers 11: The Dead Don't KnockSnatchers 12: The Dead Don't YellSnatchers 13: The Dead Don’t FearSnatchers 14: The Dead Don’t HateSnatchers 15: The Dead Don't HurtSnatchers 16: The Dead Don't RunSnatchers 17: The Dead Don't MournMonsterlandMonsterland 2Monsterland 3The Girl with the Flying Saucer EyesSome Men are Haunted (Raven Hill)Some Men are Evil (Raven Hill 2)Some Men are Killers (Raven Hill 3)GhostlandGhostland 2Ghostland 3The CanavarsThe TravellersFor more information on new releases or just general questions. You can go to his author's page on Facebook: Shaun Whittington Author or use the link:https://www.facebook.com/WhittingtonShaun

Book preview

Prologue

The young boy stood still, frozen, almost as if rigor mortis had set in his fresh and very much alive body. He had never seen anything like this before and he attempted a gulp, which felt like swallowing a jagged pebble. His throat had never been so dry and the pulse in his temple quickened as realisation began to soak into his fragile, innocent mind.

The man was dead.

The boy was young, and although he had only seen dead people on the television, he knew this was the real thing. As well as the smell of burning, he could smell something else, something that was overpowering.

He could smell the man’s blood.

The body was slumped only a couple of yards from him and he could see the bloody fragments of skull scattered inside the shed, like a completed jigsaw puzzle that had been kicked. The look of the body was surreal, and there wasn’t much left to suggest that a man once owned that body.

He now knew what the loud bangs were; the same loud bangs that attracted the inquisitive youngsters to investigate the wooden shack. The strident noises were gunshots, and he was now looking at the damage just one pull of a trigger could do to a human’s head. He staggered backwards, as the shock burrowed into him, and for the first time in a minute, he wondered about his friend who was in the house. He continued to stand there, in the garden shed, looking at a man whose head had exploded because of the smoking gun that sat next to his feet.

The young boy’s trance state was broken when he heard the familiar voice screaming from inside the house. He turned away from the horror scene that was in the shed and ran across the garden, into the wooden shack where the voice of his friend continued to scream. The macabre scenes grew worse as he entered the living room.

He wasn’t prepared for what he was about to witness. The body of the man was dreadful enough, but to see another two bloodied corpses in the shack’s living room created a stinging sensation in the back of his throat. Because of the distraction of the carnage, he hardly acknowledged that his friend was standing right next to him. His friend’s breathing was erratic, like an asthmatic who had suddenly been covered in dust and feathers. His heart gathered momentum and started to gallop. He tried to control his own erratic breathing, but it was difficult considering the circumstances.

A family had been massacred.

Chapter One

Raven Hill and Brereton were small towns that were next to one another and surrounded by woodlands, farms and private lands. In the northwest of the town there was an estate, scheme or neighbourhood called The Pear Tree that was situated not far from a place known as Cardboard Hill or simply as The Common. The last street in the northwest of Raven Hill, known as Queensway, overlooked a playing field. On the right of the playing field was a dirt path that was situated parallel to the field and eventually veered right, which led to the bottom of Cardboard Hill.

Young children loved The Common in the winter or even in the summer. In the winter, children would grab their plastic sledges, or if they were really unfortunate, grab a plastic sheet or carrier bag and head with friends to the hill. To get to Cardboard Hill they would have to pass the dirt track to the right of the playing field, and then turn right, facing the bottom part of the hill, and eventually making the arduous climb.

Despite the effort of the climb itself, each child would have an immense sense of satisfaction and relief knowing that they had made it to the top. At the top of hill was where the exciting activities began, and this is why they punished themselves to climb the hill; this was the highlight of their holidays. Just as the children would approach the downward slope of the hill, they would line up patiently, ready for the descent. Some of them sat on their sledges, and some sat inside their plastic sheets.

Other activities included football on the playing field, if an adventure onto The Common was off the list. The football field was another environment that was regularly used, which was situated behind the back of the houses that belonged to Queensway, which was the name of a street. It was perfect entertainment for close friends Neil Warner, Steven Dawson and Alan Miller who only lived yards away, which was advantageous before a meal time if they simply could not be bothered walking up the steep Cardboard Hill. The three boys had known each other from the ages of two—although Steven was nine months younger—and had played together in the street for years, they went to nursery together and were now attending the same school.

When the trio had the energy to climb the hill, they would often look into the direction of the archaic wooden house that could almost be seen behind a selection of ungainly looking trees that it was surrounded by. The wooden house was enveloped in mystery, and children, especially from the Queensway area, seemed to be obsessed with the wooden house. Adults, who rarely took to The Common, apart from joggers and dog walkers, seemed unruffled by the eerie sight of the rundown establishment.

Some of the children who were brave enough to have got nearer to the house, noticed that the only protection it had was a small four-foot fragile wooden fence that even they could break through, if need be. But most of the time the children wouldn’t see anything. There would be no sign of life. No sign of the old man. But they wouldn’t dare trespass. Nobody was stupid enough to trespass.

The house had looked like it had jobs that needed attending to. A lot of the wood was decayed, due to the usual bad weather, and the constant hunger of termites had left the outside of the house looking worse than it should have been for its age.

To the left of the wooden establishment was a small wooden shed that looked brand new, but the owner had no padlock on the shed, and the small sealed off area of land where the house was situated was only half a mile from the outskirts of Raven Hill’s Queensway. Behind the wooden house was acres of land, owned by a local farmer whose house was situated another half a mile away. To a lot of residents, Raven Hill really did feel like it was in the middle of nowhere.

The shed looked to be in better condition than the main house itself. A tree stump sat about fifteen yards away from the place in the long neglected grass, which was quite near the dark brown wooden front door. The two front windows looked slightly tinted, but it was actually dust and neglect that had tinted the windows.

These were the only windows that could be seen. The back of the house was completely covered with trees, and the garden had been cruelly ignored over the years. The only time the windows were washed was when the heavens opened, which in the middle of England was a regular occurrence. But not this summer. It was July and it hadn’t rained for two weeks, and temperatures were soaring to thirty-five degrees Celsius. An average day in Spain, but this was considered a heatwave in England.

Even in blistering temperatures, the windows of the wooden house still remained closed and the unmistakable smoke billowed, as it always did, out of its decrepit chimney.

People had talked about the house for decades. Younger people claimed that some sort of bogeyman lived there, but the older children claimed it was the home of an old man that had been known for years, even before they were born, who was known by the nickname of Killer Kelly.

Some claimed that they had seen the old man chopping wood in the backyard. Others claimed that he sometimes could be seen peering out of his window with the curtains pulled slightly back, revealing just half a face, showing his long grey matted hair that matched his straggly beard, with his deep almost black eyes and black disintegrating crumbling teeth.

Others also claimed to have been chased by Kelly, who held his gleaming trademark axe as he ran after the annoying trespassers, but as always the youngsters were far too quick for the old man to catch. Sometimes, for the younger children, the sight of the billowing smoke alone would prevent them from continuing their journey, as fear would temporarily paralyse them. Stories that were constantly told by the older children about Kelly did nothing to quench that fear either. It was tradition that the teenagers would put the fear of God into the infants, by feeding their heads with macabre stories about Kelly. It was a tradition that had been passed down many a time, helping to keep the story alive and fresh throughout the decades.

Once the years passed, the sight of the billowing smoke didn’t seem to affect the children as much as they became older, and even a glimpse of the rundown house that brought back some of their apprehension, didn’t stop them. As long as the youngsters were with the big boys, they felt quite protected and their anxiety would be eased once they had made it by the house and into the woods.

Once the children had gone by the rundown place, they were greeted by a steep hill, leading downwards, known as the Jungle of Nettles. The Jungle of Nettles could easily be avoided. The left side of the downward hill was a dirt path that was shaped in a semi-circle, which eventually took the individual to the bottom of the hill, near the woods. The path led to the outskirts of a small town next to Raven Hill, which was Brereton. It was a tiny town, compared to Raven Hill, and often classed as Raven Hill, to the annoyance of the eight hundred Brereton residents.

If a person decided to veer left through some trees, rather than following the path that led to the woods, it would take them to a small, secluded wooded area that had available car parking spaces. This was mainly popular with picnic goers and lovers—especially on a nighttime.

Walking through the car park led to a main road that would lead individuals back to Raven Hill if they decided to turn left. Turning right would eventually lead into Brereton, Raven Hill’s little sister town.

Not many people managed to walk through the Jungle of Nettles without getting stung, and to successfully complete the journey downhill, their long trousers would be tucked into the socks, which was a priority no matter what, and if that particular brave person progressed to the end of the jungle, there it was.

A gravelled steep path. The gateway to a child’s paradise. The woods.

The beginning of the woods were situated in Brereton; it was where Raven Hill ended and Brereton began.

Although a lot of the residents of Raven Hill claimed that the woods was a part of their town, geographically that wasn’t strictly true and the small members of Brereton always found the comments and opinions of their neighbours arrogant and unnecessary.

To a child, the path leading into the woods looked almost vertical; it was the main entrance to every child’s dream who possessed imagination. Once a youngster entered the woods, they could be whoever they wanted to be, they could be wherever they wanted to be. With a child’s imagination, anything was possible.

The climb up to the gravelled hill was time consuming, even for an adult. The climb itself would consist of two steps forwards and a half a yard slide, causing a mini pebble avalanche. Running up the path was virtually impossible for children, only the fittest or determined of adults could make the path without any mishaps taking place.

Once the steep path had been completed, it would be the beginning of the woods. Although many of the macabre tales that haunted some of the Raven Hill residents were related to the woods, children seemed to be more frightened of the wooden house, or cabin, and the mystery of the individual that lived inside it.

The wooden shack frightened the children, and the woods made the adults uncomfortable because of past events. Although most of the children were warned about going too deep into the woods, the warnings made the woods even more attractive and exciting. What could the parents do? They couldn’t keep their kids indoors on a leash, especially in thirty-five degree heat.

There were stories about children going missing in the woods, bodies hanging from trees, and older children told stories that they had seen young boys being burnt alive on a spit. The latter, to even a ten or an eleven-year-old, was a little far fetched, and was the result of older children trying to scare off their younger counterparts. This was done so tree houses and camps that were built by the older boys would not be interfered with by the menacing youngsters. It was a clever ploy to have the woods all to themselves. It worked, but it didn’t scare everyone.

Whatever happened, no matter how much pleasant adventure was taking place, there were a couple of rules that children adhered to in the summer. Always journey back home before the sun started to fall, as the only thing that could be seen were the faint lights that came from the old man’s shack. Always go back home in plenty of time or when you were due for your dinner. In the summer, however, it didn’t seem to matter a great deal, as nine o’clock at night seemed a reasonable time to venture back, due to the lighter nights, as long as the parents endorsed it, and in July it wasn’t a school night.

Raven Hill, being a very small town and virtually unheard of to any other British citizen, was like most towns. It had its own history, with some areas of history that the town was quite proud of, such as its mining history, the iron forges, and the textile factories. But there were other parts of history that they would like to overlook; history that only the adults knew about. They may tell their child the odd story in order for them to behave themselves. But not the real stories. Not the true stories. Not the stories that would frighten the children so much they wouldn’t sleep for a week.

An adult may be cruel to its child occasionally by using the odd blackmail line, If you misbehave, Father Christmas won’t bring you any presents, or If you don’t behave yourself, I’ll take you to Killer Kelly’s house. But no horror stories. Not the true ones, the ones that really happened over the years that still haunted some adults of this small town.

That would be too atrocious

That would be too cruel.

THURSDAY

Chapter Two

It was Thursday afternoon, and estate agent, Gavin Brown, had one more client to show round one of the homes on the eastside of Raven Hill, and he could then finally look forward to a long weekend by having Friday off—unbeknown to his others employees.

Spending most of the afternoon in bed with his new woman, and having a few drinks after with his friend, sounded like the perfect way to start a weekend and nothing was going to stop the determined individual. He had spent most of the day trying to concoct an excuse for his future absence, but was seriously struggling for ideas.

At his work, Gail Webster had already been absent with severe migraine; Jason Bellion had sickness and diarrhoea, and David Lansdowne had been absent all week with mild heatstroke. Lying bastard, Gavin thought.

Gavin was convinced that David Lansdowne had been sitting in his garden all week in the unusual heat, supping on a couple of delightful cold beers. David had no worries. He was going out with the Managing Director’s daughter, he kissed most of the senior managements’ arses, and had won employee of the month in April.

Fuck it, if some of these can take most of the week off, then a day absent from me won’t kill them, Gavin muttered under his breath, wrestling with the guilt whilst driving through the town centre.

He had only been in the job six months and would have liked a good clear absent record, which would help if ever promotion reared its ugly head. However, the temptation of a long weekend, basking in the heat and, of course, spending some quality time in the bedroom, was too much of an opportunity to turn down.

Gavin had been sent by his superior to meet a young female who was interested in one of the properties on the eastside. There was an hour to go before he finished for the week, and liked the idea of spending time with a young lady to round off a fairly quiet week. But any place was quiet, compared to the crazy strident lights of London.

Gavin was born, raised, and worked in Tottenham. The reason for his arrival at Raven Hill six months ago had nothing to do with Gavin wanting a change of scenery or wanting to transform his lifestyle. He was simply on the run.

A small time gangster known as Charlie Stevens, who had deals involving drugs, had discovered that his wife of eleven years had been having an affair with Mr Brown. Of course, Gavin never knew that the sumptuous Sarah Stevens was married to a local gangster, but he did know she was married, and this made it the more exciting for the young single male.

The affair went on for two months, and she was eventually caught when Charlie Stevens became suspicious of his wife’s recent shopping sprees, involving her going out three or four times a week. Charlie had his wife followed for three days, which resulted in photographic pictures of her leaving Gavin’s apartment. A couple of pictures that were taken had shown him to be kissing Mrs Stevens goodbye and waving her off after another successful session in the sack.

Sarah had called Gavin, sounding very distressed, and told him about the situation, about her husband and his gangland connections. She told Gavin that he had found out about the affair and had ordered some of his heavies for him to be ‘severely punished’ for playing about with his wife.

Severely punishing Gavin—according to Sarah when she called him—would involve two heavies, holding him down with his trousers round his ankles, exposing his penis, and a third man standing over him, holding a razor blade.

Gavin had left London within two hours and headed north.

He used his savings to get himself accommodation and was lucky enough to get a job in one of Raven Hill’s estate agents, thanks to a little tinkering and the odd white lie on his curriculum vitae.

It was a short journey to the eastside, and approaching the showroom, Gavin could see a solitary figure standing on the pavement, next to one of the houses. He could barely see anything, as the brilliant sun ruined his vision; he managed to pull up by the pavement safely.

He wasn’t disappointed as he stopped the car. He looked to his right and stepped out of the vehicle to be confronted by a five-foot eight stunning lady, no older than twenty-five, with gold locks reaching her shoulders. Her lips were large and seductive and her deep, dark brown eyes were enough to make any man weak with desire. Her yellow shorts didn’t help Gavin’s concentration either, as he always had a weakness for deep tanned legs; her stripy top also played with his mind.

Gavin briefly glanced at her top, which revealed her breasts, and the nipples looked like they were aching for fresh air as they almost pierced through the clothing.

Good afternoon or good evening. Gavin looked at his watch.

I’ve come to look at the house, came the response.

Of course. Gavin held the keys in his hand and gave them a playful shake.

She smiled at him thinly, which did not help the leaking that was appearing under Gavin’s armpits. It had been a long and hot day, and now he was in the presence of a beautiful woman. He became a little uncomfortable as he felt two drops dripping from his right side onto the fabric, as if some ingenious plumber had somehow managed to attach a dripping tap under his armpit.

Armpits don’t fail me now, he quietly muttered.

I’m Cara. She held out her hand.

Gavin, came his enthusiastic response. My boss didn’t tell me who I was meeting, as I’m actually covering for a colleague, so excuse our unprofessional approach.

That’s fine, she giggled nervously.

Right, now we are done with the formalities, Gavin spoke with jollity, "let’s get yer into the house—I mean, show yer round the house."

Gavin could feel his face slowly getting warmer, as if he had it pressed up against a dying furnace, and hoped that the blushing would be mistaken by his client as mild sunburn. Not many women had this effect on Gavin Brown, although he wasn’t the fussiest person when it came to women. In his London days his motto was if it’s still breathing and got a pulse then nothing else matters. Or every hole’s a goal. And if he ever had any woman who refused to be seduced by his charm, he would tell his friends that there’s plenty of more fish in the sea, you just have to get your tackle out and see what bites.

Although in the past he had been fond of the women he had relationships with, he was the kind of man who liked to keep his options open, especially if a woman like Cara could turn up out of the blue. However, any woman with sense could see he was a sexist pig, who only cared for himself.

Right, let’s go inside. He turned the key to reveal the reception area of the new home.

Listen, Cara spoke, is it alright if I take a look around on my own and ask you any questions after?

Of course, Cara. Gavin looked at her flirtatiously. Take yer time.

Cara walked slowly up the stairs, not looking back, which gave Gavin the opportunity to have a sly glance at her bottom.

This is too much, he whispered to himself, and picked the perfect moment to inspect his hygiene. Half hour with her and I’d be up to my nuts in guts.

A few stains had started to develop, but there was no sign of any odour to Gavin’s relief. He walked around the downstairs of the home and could hear her walking upstairs. A few moments passed, when slow, hard footsteps could be heard descending downstairs. Gavin brushed his damp and dark hair with his fingers, ready for her presence, and as she entered, he smiled.

Everything alright?

Fine, she replied. It’s a lovely house.

She walked by Gavin, ever so slightly brushing past him, and went to inspect the kitchen. She walked back and tried the patio door, but it was locked.

Oh. Gavin clumsily searched for the key on the ring and unlocked the door that led to the back garden. There yer go.

Thank you. This time she looked at him flirtatiously—or so he thought—which, for a brief second, gave Gavin’s confidence a slender boost. Two minutes later, she walked back into the house.

How much is the house selling for again?

About three hundred and fifty thousand, or over, he responded.

I suppose I could just about afford it, she sighed. Can I get back to you on this one? I’m not one hundred percent sure.

Of course. Gavin put his hand in his left pocket.

Anything wrong? she asked.

Nothing, nothing. So are we finished?

Yes, I have to look at some other properties, but I especially like this one.

Excellent, Gavin said excitedly. I’ll look forward to hearing from yer then.

Gavin locked the patio door and they both stepped outside into the blistering heat and walked backed to their cars. Cara unlocked her vehicle and Gavin ran over to her.

Hold on a minute. Gavin raised his arm to Cara and opened her car door. I know chivalry is almost dead, but I’m an old fashioned kind of guy.

Cara smiled to herself, as she knew what effect she was having on Gavin, as she had seen it a hundred times before whenever she spoke to anyone of the opposite sex.

Cara knew she was attractive, and although she was married and wanted it to stay that way, she loved the attention she received from her husband’s friends, her male work colleagues, new people that she would meet through work and socially. Even her own father-in-law mentally undressed her whenever they met.

Her theory was, so long as they only looked, didn’t touch, and make any suggestive remarks or actions, she was fine with that. There was one thing that she couldn’t stand and that was slimeballs; slimeballs who were full of themselves, slimeballs who thought they were God’s gift to women, and she wouldn’t think twice to put them in their place.

Here’s my card. Gavin handed Cara his business card, the card was slightly soggy with perspiration, but Cara reluctantly took it.

Your card? Cara looked at him suspiciously.

In case yer ever want to talk about the house details, babe. He smiled.

Wouldn’t it be easier and cheaper to ask for you at the office? She stared at his mobile number, ignoring Gavin’s ‘babe’ remark. I’ve got the number to your work anyway.

Well, it’s up to yer, I suppose, he said, staring at her impressive chest; a stare he was finding trouble to end.

I’m not too sure. She put the card into one of the pockets of her yellow shorts, and immediately noticed his gape, making her uncomfortable and exasperated.

It’s all in yer hands. Gavin winked with a smile.

What was that? Her voice had changed into a more negative tone.

What was what?

Tell me you was squinting because of the sun.

What? Gavin became increasingly anxious and realised that he had completely read the signs wrong, and was short of an excuse for his unprofessional behaviour.

Are you flirting with me?

No, babe. Gavin put his hands on her shoulders to reassure her. Realising that he was now touching his client, he immediately took his hands off her tanned skin.

Get off me. There was nervousness in her voice. Here. Cara handed Gavin his card back. I don’t think my husband would appreciate me carrying strange men’s phone numbers around with me.

I’m not that strange, he tried to joke.

Gavin took the card back, completely humiliated, and lowered his head in a pathetic attempt for forgiveness, and, more importantly, to make sure that she didn’t report the incident to his superior.

Are yer still interested in the ‘ouse? Gavin said, trying to change the topic.

Not sure now.

Bring yer husband round next time and yer can both have a look.

He works a lot of hours, besides, I think I’ve seen enough of your face for one week.

Okay, fine. The rejection was apparent in Gavin’s voice.

Cara again brushed past Gavin, but this time it definitely wasn’t a seductive technique. As she got into the driver’s seat, he could still feel himself looking at her, and the blood was yet again pumped into his cheeks as she became uncomfortable with this man’s staring. He bent over to her side of the car and knocked on the window. She looked at him and reluctantly wound down the window.

Listen, he grovelled. I’m sorry if yer thought I was coming on to yer, really I wasn’t. I’m just a flirty kind of guy.

Really?

"Yes, and I’m sorry if yer took it the wrong